


Anthesis

by risokura



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3734857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risokura/pseuds/risokura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sera called her by six different names, each with its own quirky and personal distinction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anthesis

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing for Dragon Age.
> 
> Six blurbs written based on Cole's observations of Sera's nickname for the Inquisitor. This could probably be better than what I wrote. Bah.

**inky** —「 _short and little, but darkness inside. making a mark and you are the light_ 」

The first time she called me _Inky_ , she reminds me of a small child. A child that eagerly sought the strong, firm hand of her mother in a crowded marketplace, for fear that she would become lost. It was odd, for I was barely older than she was. But she grins at me, self assured. Cocky. As if I _am_ her mother in a way and she’s looking for some sort of approval. Not that she would ever admit to it.

Perhaps fate _has_ brought us together. I don’t understand the workings of the myths that loom over our heads, float about our dreams like loose specters, unbounded and unchained. Inky reminds me of something murky… of someone that’s trapped between the grey underground of darkness and light. Always in the middle ground, muddled and unsure. They say that I’m supposed to represent the _light_. That this mark in my hand is a gift from Andraste. But there’s something dark that lies beneath everything that I’m supposed to be, everything I’ve accomplished. …Everything that _we’ve_ accomplished.

Perhaps that is why she reminds me of a small child. Perhaps that is why I am reminded of a mother’s firm hand. Not infallible, but capable. Someone who is strong… a person who is idealized. But still yet, a person that can never be completely right all of the time.

 **buckles** —「 _serious, somber, strapped for battle. but they come off, and it’s soft underneath_ 」

In the darkness of our tent she pulls and tries to loosen the straps on my armor. She curses in displeasure and smacks me roughly against the shoulder in frustration. _Sodding piece of crap. Why in the bloody hell do you wear this stupid ass shite?_ Sera begins to pull on another strap and I inhale sharply in surprise as it squeezes me around the ribs. I reach down to cover her hands with my own to stop her restless fidgeting. She’s going to break one of my bones if she doesn’t quit it with her yanking and random pulling.

I guide her hands to the latch securing the belt around my hips. The small trinkets tucked neatly into the belt’s pockets scatter and roll on the ground as she tosses it beside her, forgotten and unimportant. There is a second belt fastened over one of my shoulders and under my arm, the strap she was pulling on just a moment comes off just as easily as well. Next there are the buckles fastening and securing my shirt. Great bundles of cloth that even I struggle to deal with on a daily basis—no one said the armor of a mage was _practical_.

She knocks me on my back as she eagerly pulls at my pants and nearly throws my boots out of the tent. I know she’s been waiting to touch me all day, and I eagerly anticipate whatever frustration she’s had pent up from trekking across the hot desert sands all day. In the morning I’m met with hazel eyes, blurry and restless from a combination of fitful sleep and quick and rushed sex.

_I’m calling you Buckles._

**shiny** — 「 _shimmering, glistening. like a sweat soaked smile_ 」

I earn the name, _Shiny,_ after the first time I’ve allowed her to lie in my bed.

We arrived at my room at dusk, rushing past the setting sun that bathed everything in bright aureate light. An evening sky filled with red and orange and a slowly crawling, ever present darkening hue of blue. My room is almost dark, save for the slowly crackling fire I’ve requested the servants to burn every night. I don’t care for the nuisance of a well lit room. I find comfort in the dark, find that it is familiar… welcoming. Almost like the beginning of life, the time you spend wrapped in the warm comfort of your mother’s womb.

Sex with Sera isn’t some warm and fuzzy event. At least, the first time isn’t. Although it’s nothing _like_ my first time—which was an embarrassing, rushed affair underneath the sheets of my dormitory bed at the age of fifteen—but it’s my first with her. She slaps my ass more than once, bites my neck so hard I’m sure there are to be marks in the morning, and devours me with such vigor I’m sure we won’t be having any _fun—_ as she so eloquently puts it—for at least a week.

After the fourth time I can’t find my voice and I catch her wrist as she aims her hand down south again. She’s just like those faithful arrows of hers that she likes to tout around the battlefield. Always sure of her target and never missing her mark. I shake my head as she raises curious, mischievous eyebrows to look at me.

_Had enough for one night, Shiny?_

**teetness** —「 _tart, sweet. tiny, between. candy that makes you sick, but you can’t stop eating_ 」

Two trays of cookies lie on the table beside us. The ones that she made, barely eaten. The other, the ones that I made, practically devoured. I find myself laughing to myself at the crumbs that dust the corners of her mouth. The cook had been adamant about letting us into the kitchen for the night, but a few gold coins dropped into his hands sure changed his tune. Sera had been ecstatic, eyes wide and searching about for the ingredients that we needed. Ever since we had that little rooftop chat of ours a few weeks ago, I promised her this was something that we would do together. It was something that she _needed_ from me.

Somehow, in all of her excitement, Sera mistook salt for sugar and well… let’s say that we’ll need to re-up on our salt and sugar rations come next month. Either way, I told her it was all right. Things always end up haywire and out of whack when she gets involved… but I don’t necessarily view it as a bad thing. It’s part of the reason I’ve been attracted to her all this time.

I make the second batch and she barely lets the cookies cool before she digs in and samples my baking. _They’re good. They’re_ really _good._ Her face is turned up like she’s struggling with something internally. Whatever it is, she doesn’t tell me as she grabs both trays and instructs me to go back to my room. She plows her way through all the cookies until she’s groaning and clutching at her stomach for eating like such a fool. I’ve managed to eat one or two of them before she stuffed them all into her face. With outstretched arms she slumps her way into my embrace.

 _Teetness_ slips from her lips, sleepy and almost inaudible as she lays her head upon my chest.

 **tadwinks** —「 _a game or a frog. swimming, playful. wrapped around and joyous_ 」

She always sounds like she’s up to no good when she laughs, and I know that she isn’t. But the sound of it is infectious. And she never makes an effort to cover it up, which makes it genuine.

I remembered when I asked her to dance at the Winter Palace, the trepidation in her eyes and the nervous quality of her laugh as she fumbled over her words. She _doesn’t_ dance she tells me. She’s a horrible dancer. Two left feet and zero grace to guide her through the steps of a simple waltz. My hand right underneath her shoulder blades, she looks down at our feet and then back up at me. I see the blush crawling over her face, the shyness reflected in her eyes. Her reaction is uncanny, and for once I can see that I am in control of the situation.

Her cheeky grin reappears again as I twirl her around the balcony and the party carries on inside the banquet hall behind us. She stumbles every now and then and lowers her head in the same bashful way. This is something she is unsure of, this is something new. I’ve learned with time that Sera will always attempt to shy away from what is unfamiliar and what she doesn’t understand. It makes her feel vulnerable, something she has learned to equate with weakness due to her harsh upbringing. But, I want her to understand that everything new isn’t scary… that it isn’t the difference between life or death.

The music finally comes to an end and I let her out of my embrace. I bow, thanking her for the dance and seek to lead her inside. She giggles that same nervous laugh from before and she can’t even meet my eyes.

_You too, Tadwinks._

**honey tongue** —「 _sweet, smoky. always the chance of a sting_ 」

Sera tackles me to the ground and kisses me in front of the entire tavern. She’s pressing her hips down into mine like she wants to take me right then and there. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. If she could write poetry, had the proclivity for it, Sera would compare my words to the sweet sap of a flower reaching full bloom on a warm, spring day. _Honey tongue, you. Honey tongue._ The name— _this_ name—it sticks. No more Inky or Buckles. Teetness, Tadwinks or Shiny.

She’s committed fully to this… whatever _this_ is that we have. This type of _love_. She’s never experienced it before and I’ve only believed it was something that existed in tales of lore. Old epics filled with the stories of handsome knights who rush off to kill dragons and bandits, all to win the love of some fair maiden locked in a tower. I have never felt that the world could burn both with death and crimson, the spark of fire red passion. I have never known that what little I thought of my life could be the difference between salvation or solitude for another. I’ve always known that this sort of thing existed, but did I believe in it? I can’t say that the Maker ever gave me any reason to.

Most people would question how we came to be. Say this is a sham; say that Sera knows nothing about caring for another, only herself. She will forsake all others for her own personal gain. But I have seen the light in her eye, the furl of her lip when she talks about the thoughts that plague her about my demise. I know about the bracelet she’s kept hidden from me—or tried to—the one she’s braided with a lock of my hair. I know she’s confused and that she’s young. What we may have may or may not last beyond the depth of today. But she’s worth it and I want to give her the love that shes never had.

She sips from a roseate colored bottle, a wry smile on her face.  _Right, “love” is the best._


End file.
